


Not Today

by Kitty_KatAllie



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Reunions, S7 finale spoilers, What-If Reunion of Arya & Gendry, it's only T for GOT basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 08:19:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11940099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitty_KatAllie/pseuds/Kitty_KatAllie
Summary: A what-if scenario of how their meeting will happen in s8The hair on his head was shorn too close to his head, but it was black enough. The furs he wore concealed his body, but he looked broad and tall enough. But most of all, it was the way his weary, threadbare voice said 'milady'.





	Not Today

**Author's Note:**

> First GOT fic in general, but I've sorta loved Ardry for years. It's literally the only ship I care about in the books and show, so. This popped into my head and won't leave me alone. *cracks knuckles*

Sansa and Arya stood on the battlements of Winterfell, watching quietly as the snow fell thick and fast. A silent, creeping dread was making its way through the keep. And it had nothing to do with the lingering smell of charred wood and flesh, that they honestly shouldn't still be able to smell. They hadn't been able to afford to lose the men it would have taken to send the body to the Fingers, and leaving it in the crypt, whole, intact, and freshly dead, would mean just another soldier for the Dead. If they came to Winterfell. 

Watching the bastard burn had been almost as satisfying as cutting his throat anyway, in Arya's opinion. 

"Bran's been more  _absent_ than awake," Sansa murmured, worry heavy in her words. "Ever since that Tarly man came, and then just the next day. What did he mean by 'the Wall'? And his eyes..." she broke off with a sharp, little breath. Poor Sansa. The last sane Stark standing. Arya kept her eyes on the snow to keep from smiling. "It's been days, Arya."

"Something's coming. You don't need to be... whatever he is to feel it, too," Arya replied, hand tightening around the hilt of her dagger. Truly and only her own.

Sansa frowned, obviously wanting to deny it, but knowing she couldn't. Everyone in Winterfell had been on edge since Bran went silent. In the distance, obscured by snow and winter's gloom, a dark shape hurtled its way up the Road. 

"It's... It's a rider," Sansa realized in shock a moment later. "Who could- Jon won't get here for days, maybe weeks, yet."

"Whoever it is, they don't have an army or  _dragons_ behind them, either. It's safe to assume it isn't Jon," Arya retorted dryly. 

"None of that sass, Arya," Sansa said with humor in her too-serious eyes. She looked and sounded so much like mother in that instant, it  _hurt_. Then, she was hurrying towards the stairs before Arya could catch her breath. "Whoever it is, they're coming from the North. It can't be good. Be in the Hall, or I'll have you fetched like a naughty child."

Arya smiled at Sansa's retreating back. It was so  _good_ to finally have a  _real_ relationship with Sansa now, she couldn't even regret the years they'd lost. And she didn't just mean the years since their father's death. But that didn't mean she'd hop to immediately. Arya's smile curved into a smirk as she turned her gaze to the gate where the guards let in the rider. 

By the time Arya sauntered her way to the Hall, slipping inside ghost-like and unnoticed, the rider was in the midst of speaking to every lord, _and_ lady, gathered there. He- for that was a man's voice- was a listing pile of ice-crusted furs and leathers, gulping down hot, mulled wine (if Arya knew Sansa at all) between words. He was kneeling before Sansa more out of fatigue than any sense of duty, Arya suspected. 

"- the ravens all flown away or dead, I had to run for it m'self. Couldn't even find a horse in the madness. I somehow got to Last Hearth, and they gave me a horse. They weren't sure you'd b'lieve a raven from them."

"The Umbers still there, they know of this news, then?" Sansa asked sharply. She looked ashen, too pale and bloodless against the fiery hue of her hair and her dark furs. She looked  _terrified_ and numb, but Arya knew most the stupid men in this room would only see calm dignity. 

"Yes, m'lady, they're following behind me, everyone o' 'em."

Sansa barked some order or another at the maester, who bowed and left. Around them, everyone was talking over each other, horror and fear filling the air. But Arya's full attention was on the man, her feet taking her closer.

The hair on his head was shorn too close to his head, but it was black enough. The furs he wore concealed his body, but he looked broad and tall enough. But most of all, it was the way his weary, threadbare voice said _milady_. 

"Who are you, that we're supposed to believe this? It sounds  _impossible_ ," Sansa's clipped, frosty tones demanded. Too bad Bran wasn't there to terrify them all with his eerie, too-knowing words. Not that it mattered, since Arya had finally come close enough to see the rider's face. 

His bright blue eyes snapped, and he was too tired to watch his mouth. "You can believe what you want, milady, but the Dead are coming whether you believe it or not."

Sansa's hand curled into fists, but before anyone could say another word, Arya stepped out of the crowd.

"I know him," she announced loudly, walking towards him, gaze on his grey, weary face. His whole body jerked at the sound of her voice, and he stared up at her. Like she was a wight herself. "I know him. His name is Gendry Waters and he saved my life. I believe him, whatever he has to say."

"Arry," he whispered hoarsely, struggling to his feet. He swayed alarmingly, but Arya was already there. Her hands clasped his arms, holding him up and balancing him. "I-I thought you were dead. I didn't think I'd-"

"I thought  _you_ were dead," Arya replied, eyes scanning over his face, taking in the filth and sweat stains and dark shadow of a beard. He wasn't the boy she knew anymore, but he still had the same blue eyes that looked at her warmly. Her grip on his arms was too tight, but she couldn't force herself to lighten it.

"You never said you knew my sister, Waters," Sansa said as she got to her feet. Gendry wobbled as he turned towards her. Arya tugged his arm over her shoulders and wrapped her arm around his waist. The stench of old furs had her nose wrinkling, but she'd smelt worse. "You'll be given a room and food at once," she added, motioning towards a maid. "I need a raven sent to his Grace immediately. They  _must_ force the march here faster."

Arya glared at the guard and maid that came to help Gendry, instead walking with them and keeping her hold on Gendry herself. 

"Arya, I need you here," Sansa called out softly, under the noise of bannermen arguing. 

"I'm no politician, Sansa. When you need an executioner again, send word," Arya rejoined flippantly. She could just barely make out the sigh of frustration as she half-dragged Gendry from the hall. 

"You should be staying with your sister, Ar- milady. They can help me just fine," Gendry protested, even as his arm tightened around her shoulder and his chest heaved with each breath. 

"Shut your mouth. And it's Arry to you. None of that milady nonsense," Arya told him, grunting slightly as they made their way up the stairs. His breath puffed over her ear and neck in a tired chuckle and she pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. 

The trek to the room finally came to an end and Gendry fell to the simple cot with a gusty groan, falling back on his hands and his head tipped back. The maid appeared a moment later with a tray of food and a flagon of mead. She set it down on the bed next to Gendry and stepped back with a questioning look at Arya. 

"Thank you. Could you get him water for a bath and some spare clean clothes and linens?  _Quickly_ ," Arya said with an eyebrow rising when the maid paused too long. She curtsied and fled. 

"Arry, I'll be fine without all that," Gendry muttered, already lifting the mead to his mouth and guzzling it down. Arya rolled her eyes and knelt in front of him, hands on his boots. He choked and sputtered, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. "What are you doin'?"

"Helping. Get all those layers off before it melts all over the bed," Arya ordered brusquely, tugging off the first boot with a 'oof'.

"You're not s'pposed to... you shouldn't  _stay_ here alone like this,  _milady_ ," Gendry tried again, though he was wrestling with his cloak as he argued. 

Arya huffed. "I'm already not much of a lady, Gendry. Just... tell me what happened. What did you mean the Dead were coming?" she asked, grey eyes lifting to meet his. His hands froze over the ties, then, slowly, he yanked the ties loose and threw the heavy mass to the floor. 

"The Wall fell, Arry. I saw it  _fall_."

Despite heat from the underground hot springs, the tiny room seemed icy cold. A trickle of fear slid down her spine, but Gendry's eyes were serious and unblinking. No wonder he looked so old and tired. No wonder Bran stayed in his room, his mind searching and searching for an answer to help them. "H-How could... How could it  _fall_? So soon?" she croaked. She stared down at her hands on Gendry's boot, wondering how could she be here  _with Gendry_. After everything, they were together at the end of the world. Like a bad joke. 

"You didn't hear me then..." He halted and his throat clicked loud and dry when he swallowed. "Arry, the Night King... he... he killed one of Queen Daenerys's dragons beyond the Wall. And he..."

Her heart dropped out the bottom of her stomach, but her voice was steady and cold when she spoke, "He brought the dragon back. The Night King has a dragon wight."

"And he rides it like the Queen rides hers. The flame is  _cold_ , and blue, and it broke through the Wall within minutes, Arry.  _Minutes_. It's why the Umbers gave me a horse instead of sending just a raven. They were sure Lady Sansa wouldn't believe it without me there in person to tell her," Gendry explained. His hand rubbed over his face and he slumped forward. 

Arya scowled, then pulled the boot off hard enough Gendry almost got dragged off the bed. She got to her feet and chucked the boot in the corner before stomping her way to the tiny, cold fireplace. She squatted in front of the small stack of logs, grinding her teeth as she struck at the flint in her hands. There was nothing that panicking or fear would get her. One step at the time. She definitely needed to go back to Sansa as quickly as possible, though. 

"You'll eat up and rest. I don't want to see you outside this room until tomorrow morning. Then, Sansa will give you something to do. It's what she does best, telling people what to do." The words were much fonder than they would've been just a couple years ago. 

"So, there's more than one of you, eh?" Gendry tried to joke, but his voice was too flat. Too damn tired. The fire crackled to life and Arya got to her feet. 

"She's the Lady of Winterfell. She knows what the North needs in a way I don't. I'm good at getting my hands bloody, and that's that," Arya told him, turning to look at him, arms crossed over her chest. He frowned, one cheek bulging with bread, the rest of it rolling restlessly between his hands. 

"Whassat s'pposed t' mean?" Gendry asked in confusion. She just smiled.

"Sansa will tell you your place for now, and she'll be right about it, but that doesn't mean you're  _hers_ ," she told him, voice and eyes intense. Silence fell as they shared a long private look, both of them remembering their last conversation. Back when he thought he'd be part of the Brotherhood and she thought she was on her way home, when those were the paths they thought they needed. 

Only for them to end up here. In Winterfell. Changed in ways neither of them expected. 

But he still tipped his head to the side, a strange little smirk on his face. "My lady."

Her eyebrow rose, her smile matching his. A knock at the door interrupted their nostalgic moment, and the maid from before reentered, followed by several others, all with buckets, or carrying a small hipbath. 

"I'll leave you, Gendry. I better not see you before tomorrow morning."

"You mean  _now_ you have manners?" he asked dryly. She left the room chuckling under her breath. 

 

* * *

 

She found him, as she figured, in the blacksmith's. Sansa always did know how to find out where people belonged. And Gendry looked so much more like himself here, wearing his oiled leather apron and scowling over the supply of dragonglass that had been sent ahead of the army, when Jon was on his fool's mission to capture a Walker and take to Cersei. It gleamed almost wetly in the flickering light of the forge fire when he lifted it high and turned it one way and the other. 

"What, can't sharpen a rock, Master Blacksmith?" Arya taunted from the doorway. He looked over at her and that smile he always used to save just for her showed on his filthy, blackened face. 

"It's not the same as metal. I wish Jon woulda given me a better look at his sword. I could make 'em like Mott used to instead of chippin' away at rocks," Gendry replied, scowling a moment later at the supply he had. 

Arya snorted softly. "Too good for dragonglass. Even bastards have too much pride." The look he gave her had her grinning. He had been so much better at riling her up back then, it was fun to have the edge on  _him_  now. "How'd you meet Jon? And why aren't you dead?"

Gendry took the 'glass in his hand to his workbench and grabbed a chisel and hammer. He looked back at her, eyebrows high, obviously inviting her to stay. She perched on the workbench next to his arm, swinging her feet over the ground, as she listened to him tell her what happened since the Red Woman took him away. A few times, she had to bite her lip to keep from releasing a stream of curse words. The Red Woman moved even higher on the List, but mainly because so many of the others were dead. She could afford this more personal vendetta. When he finally ran out of steam, which took a lot faster than it probably should have, Arya watched his deft hands wrap the hilt of the new dagger with leather. Ready to be plunged into a White Walker. 

"I was s'pposed to be fighting. Fighting and dying if I had to, for Jon's doomed cause," Gendry said after a long, silent moment. He ran his thumb over the edge of the 'glass blade, pulled away his bleeding thumb, and they watched it drip slowly onto the tabletop. "We were s'pposed to be a Stark and Baratheon, fighting together like our fathers. But instead I was sent running ahead of the fight. It's all I'm good at. Running and telling news, like a bloody  _raven_. I don't even... I don't even have my hammer anymore. Fucking Hound," he spat, dropping the dagger to the table and wiping his thumb off on his leggings. 

"I may not be Jon," Arya started slowly. Gendry glanced up at her. "But I am a Stark. You can fight beside me. I won't ask you to run anywhere. Unless it's with me."

Gendry frowned. "Arry- no,  _milady_ , you shouldn't be talking like that. Even if we live through this War, but there's just more war after that, for the fucking Iron Throne everyone wants. And maybe your brother's gone far for a bastard, but not all of us can be kings."

"I don't need a king," Arya snapped. She slid off the bench and scowled at him, still just an inch or two taller with him sitting on his stool. "I couldn't protect you back then, and you almost ended up dead. I can now. I can fight and  _win_ to keep people from taking you away. I'm tired of my family dying and leaving, and you're my family. Whatever you want to call me, you're my family," Arya told him fiercely, eyes flashing. 

Gendry got up slowly, and set both hands on her shoulders. "You can't protect me now, either. Not from an army of dead over a hundred thousand strong. Not with a dragon wight. Gods willing, you'll live through it, Arya, but I might not. You can't protect me from that."

Arya shrugged off his hands and grabbed the front of his oiled apron. "There's only one God, Gendry, and his name is Death. The only thing we say to Death is  _not today_."

Gendry stared down at her, and then laughed weakly, grasping her wrist in his big, callused hand. "What the fuck happened to  _you_ , Arry?" He sounded a little afraid, but that wasn't what she wanted. She wanted him to have faith in her, but also in himself. She wanted him to face down Death, but Syrio's words didn't give him the comfort they gave her.

She wasn't thinking like Gendry, though. Gendry wasn't stupid, by any means, but he was simple. A simple young man who wanted to fight for glory and a father he used to refuse to acknowledge. He wasn't surly or resentful anymore, just steady, willing, and loyal. How much of his loyalty to Jon had been for his father, and how much for  _her_? Because she was a Stark and serving Jon had been his way of serving  _her_?

She lifted her free hand, hooked her fingers in the neck of his tunic, and tugged him down. He was startled enough by the motion that he let her drag him down to her level. She didn't even have to lift onto her toes, she realized smugly. 

Then, she pressed her mouth to his, awkward but firm. His hand tightened around her wrist and she stepped closer. The scruff around his mouth scratched her lips, and he smelled like soot and fire and  _him_. For a moment, she thought her gamble had failed- _how? why?_ \- until abruptly, it was like he came to life under her mouth. His hand dropping hers to cup the back of her head and he slanted his mouth over hers. So  _this_ was what kissing was. The soft, needy groan he made before his mouth moved with hers, breath moist and humid, and lips bruising. His tongue swiped over her bottom lip, and a shudder worked its way down to her belly, where it burned hot and liquid. She remembered this feeling, a shadow of it, once before. In Harrenhal. When she watched him play at knight with his shitty little sword and his chest bare. A feeling she hadn't had since, buried under desperation and death and blood. 

When his arm moved to wrap around her waist, to pin her closer to him, her senses barely managed to take back control. 

She slithered away, mouth feeling puffy and wet, and heart hammering against her chest. They stared at each other, both panting softly. Arya scraped together all her training, buried all those feelings back down under a blank mask of No One. 

"You'll tell Death not today until I say you can't. You owe me, and when the Walkers are gone, I expect to be paid back." She spun on her heel and strode out the forge.

"W-Wait, Arya!" Gendry shouted, racing after her. 

But she was already hidden, watching as he stood there, blinking in the dim morning light at the courtyard filled with people that weren't her. His hand reached up to cover his mouth. When he turned back into the blacksmith's shaking his head, she pressed her thumb to her bottom lip. She grinned, teeth baring like a wolf's. 

A Stark and a Baratheon would end up side-by-side after all. 


End file.
